THE GARDEN. 
423 
No white nor red was ever seen 
So am’rous as this lovely green. 
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, 
Cut in these trees their mistress’ name. 
Little, alas, they know or heed 
How far these beauties her exceed ! 
Fair trees, where’er your barks I wound, 
No name shall but your own be found. 
When we have run our passion’s heat, 
Love hither makes his best retreat. 
The gods, who mortal beauty chase, 
Still in a tree did end their race. 
Apollo hunted Daphne so, 
Only that she might laurel grow. 
And Pan did after Syrinx speed, 
Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 
What wondrous life is this T lead! 
Ripe apples drop about my head; 
The luscious clusters of the vine 
Upon my mouth do crush their wine. 
The nectarine, the curious peach, 
Into my hands themselves do reach. 
Stumbling on melons, as I pass, 
Ensnar’d with flowers, I fall on grass. 
Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, 
Withdraws into its happiness ; 
